


Singularity

by Cumberbatch Critter (CumberbatchCritter)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Basically Molly is doing a lot of fantasising, Cuddly Sherlock, Dirty Thoughts, Domestic Sherlock, F/M, Gen, Imagined relationship, Kink thoughts, Kissing, Molly's not a good girl, Naughty, PWP without sex?, Potential food kink/sex, Potential voice kink, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual thoughts, Sherlock's sexuality, Sherlolly - Freeform, Thoughts of dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberbatchCritter/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper may look like a perfect little English girl, but she isn't.</p><p>Aka: </p><p>Molly fantasises about Sherlock. (In mostly sexual ways.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Singularity

**Author's Note:**

> Hello~ I don't ship Sherlolly, but I had the urge to write something dirty going through her mind. I think she's not all innocent. ;p
> 
> But Sherlolly's cute. I don't think it could happen so I don't ship it, but it's cute in doses. And I'm in a Sherlolly mood.
> 
> Heed the warnings!

 

**Singularity**

Molly couldn't look him in the eye.

Everyone thought she was a good girl. A perfect little angel, never taking risks, never doing anything that anyone could so much as sniff at. A shining example of being English. The good little, naive English girl.

She wasn't.

Like most people, Molly Hooper had fantasies. Unlike most people, she had fantasies about _Sherlock Holmes_. He was rude and egotistical and vain. He didn't care about anybody but himself (and occasionally John Watson). But Molly Hooper cared about him.

Some times, they were pretry normal fantasies. Going on a date with him. Having coffee. It wasn't that she wanted him to give her the world. Just a smile.

But then, some other times... they weren't.

Molly didn't think that Sherlock was going to be very good in bed, if he ever got into a bed with someone, that was. Well, not at first. He was intelligent; he'd pick it up quickly enough, but he was inexperienced. Now Molly wasn't the most experienced on the block, either, but she knew enough. She knew how to kiss, anyway.

And, oh, Sherlock's lips. He had the perfect, most kissable lips that Molly had ever seen. The things that he could do with his mouth. She tried not to think about it, but... she did.

Unlike most people, Molly was a singularity, a one of a kind person who _willingly_ imagined crawling into bed with Sherlock Holmes and snogging him senseless.

She imagined what it would be like to kiss those lips, finally, after so much thinking and glances that left her embarrassed and flustered. He wouldn't know what to do the first time, wouldn't know to move his lips against hers, to part them to let out the breathy sighs of contentedness, to, maybe, perhaps, brush his tongue along the sensitive, thin layer of her lips and slip its way into the moist cavern of her mouth.

And his hands. Long, thin, _extremely_ dextrous fingers. The things he could do with those fingers, those hands. Caress her face gently or unhook her bra clasp with three fingers. The idle patterns that he could trace on her thighs made goosebumps rise on her skin.

And then she wondered what noises he made in the heights of pleasure. Would he be the vocal type? Would the deep moans that rumbled in the back of his throat break the silence of the room? Would he be a myriad of curse words, inelegant words dripping from his lips as a nipple was tweaked, when an earlobe was nipped, maybe when he orgasmed?

Or maybe he was silent. Withholding all noise to the best of his ability, driving Molly up the wall with the quiet whimpers or the breathy exhaultations as he got closing and closing to reaching his climax and then- what? Would his silence be broken? Would he muffle his yell into the pillow? Bite his cheek too hard and draw blood?

Sherlock Holmes was a prideful man, but he deserved his release.

Molly wanted to give it to him.

And then, of course, his cock. The romance bit of it wasn't what made her fantasies opposite to her good-girl fascade. Every girl dreamed of passionate romance. But when Molly often wondered how Sherlock looked beneath those clothes, well... Lewd thoughts.

He held himself so far above everyone else. Did his dick size compare to his outer image? It hardly mattered to her... a big dick, a little dick. Bigger wasn't always necessarily better if the guy that you were shagging was rubbish with it. But she did wonder: was he well-endowed?

She had other thoughts about that, too: what turned him on? Did the cases, did murder _really_ get his blood pulsing? She'd never seen him with an erection... not that she stared at his crotch, but those clothes he wore... It left nothing to the imagination. If he got hard, _everyone_ would know. But Sherlock wouldn't go out like that. He wouldn't be seen in a position like that.

And then the stranger thoughts: did he shave, for instance. Some men did. It apparently made their cock look bigger. It seemed like an experiment that Sherlock would pull, but she much rather preferred to imagine Sherlock with a perfect, long cock, his dark curls begging to be tousled even in his most private of areas. Maybe it was pink, a little veined for better purchase, better touch experience for Sherlock.

And what would _that_ feel like plowing into her?

Strong and hard or light and hesitant? Would Sherlock have a rhythm? Well, of course he would; he was musically inclined. He would always find a rhythm to follow. How long would it be before he made her come? And what about him? Would _he_? Maybe while he was still buried, balls deep, in her?

Did he have kinks? Things that were ticks, sure-fire ways to bring him off like fireworks in November. Probably something dangerous. Breathplay, bloodplay - oh yes, Molly knew what those were - probably, but those weren't her cups of tea. Sherlock was always, by design, more attached to danger than she was and would probably find pleasure in things like that. Molly liked normal things... well, not that kinks were normal - they were called kinks for a reason - but who complained? They made you feel wonderful, got you off more intense than vanilla sex.

Molly wondered what it would be liked to have Sherlock licking whipped cream from down her bosom (albeit she didn't have much cleavage to go with). Lapping chocolate sauce from her belly with his tongue, relishing in the chocolate kisses as he leaned up to capture her lips.

Or maybe he could just talk to her. Talk dirty to her. Oh, Molly was innocent on that outside, but she was relatively naughty on the inside. And there was something terribly arousing about Sherlock's perfect lips formed around those dirty, dirty words.

All of those mirror-steaming thoughts aside, it didn't even have to be sex to make Molly blush.

She imagined more domestic lifestyles, too.

Waking up every morning with Sherlock in her bed, his creamy skin illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the windows. His hair touslsed from sleep, his t-shirt hiked up on his stomach, showing only a tease of the unblemished skin underneath.

Cuddling on the sofa over a Valentine's Day movie. (And this was purely imagination, because Sherlock would proclaim it boring and flounce away in real life.) Nibbling on biscuits and scones and cuddling up into his shoulder, his arm automatically falling around her shoulders. And when he kissed her, he'd taste like shortbread. Or tea or maybe even mint from his toothpaste.

Their wedding. Sherlock would hate it but Molly would love it and he'd embellish her. Lots of frilly things and lots of bright colours and maybe even Toby bringing the rings down the aisle on his little cat collar, complete with a bell.

All in her head.

But she did have to work with Sherlock (and she wouldn't change it for the world). And she couldn't look him in the face when she'd been visualising what his cock looked like under his trousers or what the inside of his mouth would taste like in a French kiss (although the former more than latter as the embarrassment level changed between thoughts).

"Molly."

She glanced up, looking across the lab at Sherlock. "What?"

"You're thinking. It's annoying," he said bluntly. He didn't look up from the microscope.

Molly sighed but smiled, only mentally.

If only he knew what she was thinking about. If only he could read _that_.

He would be shocked, probably. As with most of the world. So, Molly Hooper kept all her dirty thoughts on the inside and her girlish demeanour on the out. She was a good little perfect pathologist. She didn't have dirty thoughts...

... unless they involved Sherlock Holmes, which, then, she did quite a bit of thinking, after all.


End file.
